Abused Patience Turns to Fury
by justasimplesketch
Summary: Eames has an immeasurable amount of patience for Arthur and his quirks. But what happens when Arthur breaks one too many promises?


When Eames meets Arthur, they are both fresh-faced, not completely aware of what they are entering into. From the beginning, their differences scream volumes. Arthur craves specificity and structure, where Eames is more unstructured and free-minded. The smallest things can send Arthur into a tizzy, while Eames remains pokerfaced over the biggest catastrophes. It's Eames's unwavering patience that pulls the two together, professionally and otherwise. Arthur can pace a hole into the ground, ripping pages out of his moleskin and his hairs from their follicles and Eames remains still, listening to his grievances. Time and time again, Eames lies still in his bed, whether hotel or flat, cell phone pressed against his ear. He listens to Arthur have a panic attack over lack of research presenting itself, but never about how their distance bothers him. How they haven't touched, tasted, seen each other for nearly six months. Arthur married his work, while Eames married Arthur, and this polyamory strains all of Eames's sensibilities, weakens his practiced patience.

The final straw comes in December as Eames stands alone, staring up at the large tree in Rockefeller Center. Despite his villainous profession, stealing more than buying, Eames adores Christmas. It reminds him of home, of the family that fell apart years ago, of the twin brothers that refuse to see him anymore, the mother who told him he is scum, the father who died too young. It reminds him of a better time, but it also coats his tongue with the bitter taste of rejection and lost.

The wind seems to faintly whisper in Arthur's New York acquired accent, "You'll never be alone on Christmas, not as long as we're together." Suddenly, it becomes clear to Eames, to his dismay, they are no longer together. They've become casual fuck buddies, who come home on leave from work and fall into bed, whisper false truths, meaninglessness fueled by hormones and desire. His phone buzzes, most likely another text filled with excuses and lies. Despite the sharp, bone freezing winds and the darkness of night quickly descending upon the sleepless city, Eames walks the distance between Rockefeller Center and the Hudson. With a frustrated noise, he chucks his phone as far out into the river as he can, feeling slight satisfaction as the phone slips under the surface with a resounding splash. His panting breath ghosts up around his face, obscuring the dark, icy water as a distance memory emerges from its watery grave.

—

His lungs would not expand to take in gulps of air as his head bobs to the surface. Pain doesn't quite cover the sensation — no, this is what a slow descend into the lowest level of hell must feel like. He'll suffocate and freeze to death simultaneously, never receiving the chance to say another coded confession of love to that stick-in-the-mud pointman he covets. He feels himself steadily growing numb, every system shutting down slowly, achingly so. Darkness engulfs him as all the fight in him is siphoned out into the frigid Atlantic waters.

The first conscious thought that fills his mind is that he's excruciatingly warm. Hell it is, Eamesy boy, he thinks sarcastically. He slowly comes to terms with his condemnation until the sound of a combination of a door opening and Cobb's voice, chastising Arthur for not taking care of himself, floods his ears. Surely hell would have Cobb, but most certainly not Arthur.

"He almost _died_, Cobb. My body can withstand shock, starvation, and sleep deprivation." There's a frantic desperation coloring his tone, something he'd never heard from Arthur before. Well, unless it's pertaining to a hundred page history done for naught or an unexpected detail rearing its ugly head in a day before a job. Arthur never uses that tone unless he cares deeply about the thing at hand.

Forcing out strained syllables, Eames snarks, "I didn't know you cared, poppet."

—

He had, back then. They acted as a pair of schoolchildren, poking and prodding until someone unexpectedly kissed the other or swung a punch. A childish way of affection, but at least it was affection.

The stroll from the Hudson blends into his departure from JFK the next morning, the colors bleeding together, nothing more important than the next. The voices all seem the same, monotonous and booming, like any adult from the Peanuts cartoons.

Sinking into the far too stiff coach chair, Eames contemplates when he allowed his life to spiral here. When did he fail to notice Arthur's lack of interest in their relationship, in him? Or did he simply cling to a nonexistent relationship not wanting to face another loss, another rejection by someone who used to love him? The thought dizzies every memory, skewing them and slanting Arthur into some unromantic whelp throughout the youth of their relationship.

London appears outside his window far too quickly, hours upon hours lost in anguished reflection. The ground feels unfamiliar beneath his worn and broken soles, despite his precise knowledge of every inch of Heathrow. London has become an unfriendly stranger, lacking any familiarity in his mind without some pang of recognition of what he once had. He hitches his bag further up his shoulder as he strides out into utter monochromatism.

Unceremoniously, Eames breaks into a car parked in the long stay parking lot and drives three blocks within _their_ flat, before abandoning said vehicle and walking the rest of the distance. Most of the precious (read: expensive and priceless) items stolen within the last ten years reside within this flat, all a testament to Eames's creativity and Arthur's desire for lavish possessions. He halts on his way up the sidewalk leading to the flat. The faintest flicker of candlelight comes from the bedroom window. His tired body faces fight or flight, uncertain whether a day's long argument is worth it. Arthur rips the decision process away from Eames when he opens the front door, his eyes soft and repentant.

"It said, turn around."

Eames lifts his brow in confusion, his feet rooted to the pavement.

Arthur steps out of the flat, closing the distance between them. "The text you never read. It said, turn around. I told you, Eames, as long as we're together, you'll never spend a Christmas alone." Arthur runs a hand through his hair, his soft sigh punctuated by his visible breath. "I don't know what's been going through your mind since yesterday. But I do know that I haven't been much of a husband. I get so caught up in my work, so lost in everything. But I'm not a mind reader, Eames. You've always been so painfully patient with me, so quiet about your needs and wants. I can't know when you're unhappy if you don't tell me. I'm not blaming you for our problems, that's petty. I'm to blame for most of our issues, I realize that, but you need to help me. Help me know what you want."

Eames blinks slowly, recognition of Arthur's words coming slower than usual, "You were in New York?"

"Yes. I discreetly followed you to the Hudson and saw you chuck your cell phone into the water. As I said before, I don't know whatever's been going through your mind, but I—" Eames cuts him off with his lips. Wrapping his arms around his lithe waist, he pulls him close, brushing his tongue against Arthur's. All of the pain, the anguish washes away into their kiss.

Arthur smirks against his lips a bit, "C'mon, we've got a holiday to celebrate properly." He tugs him inside of their flat before closing the door and following him up the stairs.


End file.
